


Refrain

by orphan_account



Series: Mystery Spot [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Prompt Fic, Reichenbach, Suicide, Superlock (sorta)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-23
Updated: 2012-07-23
Packaged: 2017-11-10 12:39:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/466374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt fic: Sherlock with a bit of a Supernatural crossover element, which in this case… The Mystery Spot episode.</p><p>This is John's side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Refrain

**Author's Note:**

> The second of two prompts set by Inspectahradio on tumblr.

The first time Sherlock died, it was when his body hits the pavement after jumping off the roof. As a doctor, John knew that his ribs had probably pierced his lungs upon contact —after all, he’d landed on his front. He’d probably cracked his skull as well, if the blood pouring from his head was any form of indication, so naturally brain damage before death followed. Muscles torn, blood vessels ruptured and bones shattered, Sherlock died quickly.

 

John’s hand reached out to catch Sherlock’s wrist. No pulse.

 

The noise surrounding him was distorted, each voice too slow as if time had been addled in this singular moment, until eventually, it was all just a low rumble. The figures around him moved like shadows, silently, slowly and before he knew it he was surrounded. John was unable to breathe, he felt as if he was suffocating, too hot, too cold, nothing was stable.

 

“Sherlock...”

 

~*~

 

When John opened his eyes, he was met with a wall so bright, it almost blinded him. Beakers to his left and a microscope to his right, he quickly realised that he was in the laboratory of Saint Bart’s.

 

Wait. What?

 

He lifted his head slowly, disorientated not only by the unfamiliar surroundings but also by the lack of sleep. How was it possible that he was inside? He could’ve sworn that he was outside looking at Sherlock’s bloody corpse on the floor. Shaking his head once, and then twice, he peered out the window and saw darkness. Dawn, or close to it? It must’ve been around six in the morning.

 

From the corner of his eye he saw Sherlock sitting in the office chair. With one leg thrown across his knee and his back straight, John couldn’t help but notice the expectant look on his face. Expectant? What was he waiting for?

 

His phone rang.

 

Shaking off the strange and rather unwanted feeling, John answered his phone.

 

He almost dropped it.

 

Hearing the words from the receiver, he felt himself growing more and more unnerved. The wording, the intonation of the voice, he had heard it before and was able to predict what was next. Mrs. Hudson had gotten shot and he urgently needed to return to Baker St. In John’s memory, he remembered his worried fumbling and his panicked words as he demanded to know if she was alright. He also remembered hanging up and yelling at Sherlock for being a machine, for not following him.

 

And then, he remembered finding out that the call was a hoax and returning in time to see Sherlock taking a swan dive to the pavement.

 

That couldn’t have happened, could it? After all, Sherlock was right here, watching him as the voice on the other end of the line prattled on. So, perhaps it was just a dream? A scarily accurate dream, but a dream nonetheless? John uttered a quiet response down the line, to let the informant know that he had heard them and that he was on his way.

 

He hung up, his hand lowered and the phone was slipped into his pocket. For a few moments, he said nothing, merely staring at the floor beneath him as his brain tried to fit the disjointed pieces together. What was real and what was fake? If he headed back to Baker St, would he see Mrs. Hudson perfectly fine without a single scratch on her person?

 

“John?”

 

John kept his eyes to the floor. “Paramedics, Mrs. Hudson was shot,” he said. His words were quiet, lacking the appropriate conviction needed. He was meant to sound indigent, wasn’t he? Angry, shocked? Then why wasn’t he feeling any of these things? Why wasn’t he rushing off to check if Mrs. Hudson was alright?

 

“You don’t seem worried.”

 

At this, John lifted his head to meet Sherlock’s gaze. “I am,” he replied. He didn’t sound the least bit convincing. Inhale, exhale, breathe. Repeat. “I’m gonna go and see if she’s alright.”

 

Strange, was that a look of relief on his face? “See you later then.”

 

“You’re not going with me?”

 

“I’m busy.”

 

Even though he knew what Sherlock was going to say next, he couldn’t help but ask: “busy? Doing what?”

 

“Thinking. I’m busy thinking.”

 

Exactly as he remembered. He supposed that by this point, the warning bells should be going off and that he should be staying instead of going. If he went, would Sherlock jump again? Was he really willing to risk it twice?

 

“John, aren’t you going?”

 

Sherlock’s insistence was rather suspicious too. John stared at him, battling with the pros and cons of the situation. Should he stay or should he go? Did he really trust Sherlock to be alone? He gnawed at the inner lining of his cheek and his brow furrowed. He’ll go, just to check. Sherlock would never attempt something so stupid twice, would he?

 

~*~

 

“Goodbye John.”

 

~*~

 

When John opened his eyes, he was back inside. Same sounds, same sights, same... everything. Thrice. This had happened thrice, too many times to be a coincidence. He wasn’t going crazy, was he? If he was, then at least it was consistent. He supposed that was a small mercy.

 

Once again, Sherlock sat in the corner of his eye. Any minute now, his phone would ring and he would pick up to hear that Mrs. Hudson had been shot, though that was a lie. Who was the person on the other end? Not a paramedic like they had claimed. A hired hand, perhaps? Someone planted by Moriarty to lead him astray? Damn, how was he meant to know? He wasn’t Sherlock with his powers of deduction. He was plain old John Watson, ex-army doctor with a dodgy shoulder and an even dodgier flatmate.

 

The phone rang.

 

He repeated the same motions, pretended to sound concerned before hanging up. This time, he made no promises of going to Baker St; didn’t say that he’d be there as soon as he could. Instead, he simply sat back down and stared at his phone.

 

“Sounded urgent,” Sherlock eventually said.

 

John shrugged. “Not really.”

 

Sherlock frowned, the same face he made when something didn’t go according to plan. Peculiar. “What happened?”

 

“Mrs. Hudson was shot.” No point lying, Sherlock would be able to tell.

 

Sherlock stared at him, a look of pure confusion clear upon his features. “And that isn’t urgent?”

 

John pocketed the phone. “It was a hoax.”

 

There was a quiet hum. “Interesting. What makes you think that?”

 

His response was a weary one. “I just know.”

 

“That isn’t a very good reason.”

 

“Get off my back! I just know, alright?” John snapped.

 

Sherlock straightened and though he seemed surprised, there was no indication of hurt feelings, he was used to John’s outbursts. Thank God too, John wasn’t sure if he would be able to deal with a hurt _and_ suicidal best friend.

 

He said nothing, merely remaining where he was; in turn, Sherlock did the same. Reclining back into the chair, Sherlock’s fingertips touched to form a steeple and once again, he began to think. John could feel the focused stare upon him and knowing all too well that he was now the subject of Sherlock’s thoughts and deductions. However, he was much too perturbed to care. Now that he had decided to stay, would Sherlock remain alive? Or would he go ahead and jump like before? He sincerely hoped that wasn’t the case, if his presence did nothing to deter Sherlock, then he didn’t know what would.

 

No. He couldn’t think like that. He had to try harder and even if it took a hundred tries, he would not let Sherlock die. He owed his friend that much.

 

After what seemed like hours, Sherlock stood.

 

“Where are you going?” John asked, his voice a touch too strained, too high.

 

Sherlock arched an eyebrow and regarded him with a look of amusement and confusion. “The toilet, John. Unless you wish to accompany me?”

 

John started and shook his head, feeling a little foolish. No, of course Sherlock wouldn’t be going off to his death. The toilet, yes. Logical, they’d been trapped in the hospital for over eight hours, of course the man would need a leak. He nodded, the action was weary and slight.

 

Sherlock quirked a smile and left the room, abandoning John with his frightful thoughts.

 

Minutes ticked by, and then ten, then thirty and John began to worry. The toilet was a five minute walk, at most. And surely, it didn’t take that long to relieve oneself? Perhaps he was being too paranoid?

 

He quickly stood though the sinking feeling of dread remained deeply rooted within him, crippling and almost paralysing him. He fought against it. The fear could be ignored. He could go to the toilet with the pretence of needing it too. If Sherlock saw through the lie, then the worst that could happen was momentary embarrassment and all would be well.

 

His pace was brisk and his steps echoed through the empty corridor. No one was around, still too early, not to mention that he was in the part of the hospital where only staff resided. Most hadn’t even clocked in yet. Faster, his mind told him.

 

The door was pushed open.

 

Sherlock’s body was on the floor, his hair soaked and his lips a pale blue. A pool of water surrounded him, his neck and shoulders drenched. Drowning? Sherlock had drowned? But how?

 

John’s breaths were short and frantic when he laid eyes with the toilet bowl. The seat lifted, he thought rather randomly.

 

“You’ve got to be fucking ki—”

 

~*~

 

The next time Sherlock died, it was in a fit of boredom. Too irritated under John’s watchful eye, he decided to do an experiment, anything to distract him from John. He had been observing something underneath a microscope before thinking that it’d be a great idea to burn it.

 

He inhaled the fumes and in seconds, he was gone.

 

This time, John was in too much shock at the man’s stupidity to curse.

 

~*~

 

The time after that, Sherlock was stabbed by a clumsy lab assistant. One of them tripped, John wasn’t sure, it was over before he had a chance to really register it.

 

~*~

 

An arsonist decided that Tuesday was a great day for setting a hospital on fire. Sherlock died from smoke, John blacked out soon after.

 

~*~

 

Then, there was the crazed fan that felt betrayed by Sherlock’s uncovering, that the man he idolised was actually a fraud. He screamed at him for crushing his beliefs before strangling him at the height of madness.

 

Somehow, John wasn’t too surprised. Sherlock got strangled much too often for his own good.

 

~*~

 

Today was the hundred and twentieth Tuesday he had lived. John had lost his mind long ago, reaching the breaking point sometime around day ninety. Paranoia had taken Sherlock’s position as best friend and he no longer cared for the man’s wellbeing. After all, why should he? Sherlock was fated to die today and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He knew that a part of him should’ve felt ashamed and disgusted for giving up. However, that part was silenced with reason.

 

Watching his friend die a hundred and nineteen times was enough to crush anyone’s sanity.

 

So when he awoke and saw Sherlock staring at him, he giggled. He let out a high pitched giggle that seemed to set Sherlock on edge.

 

“John...? What’s so funny?”

 

John gasped for breath and smiled at Sherlock. Too strained and tight, showing too much teeth. Was the madness clear on his face? Because he was sure that Sherlock leant away from him. “Just wondering how you’ll die today.”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“You’ve already drowned in the toilet, so it can’t be that. You’ve been burned and stabbed. There was the acid too, that was messy,” John listed, his voice was still high. Oh dear, he was hysterical. Didn’t matter, he supposed. Sherlock would forget come tomorrow.

 

Sherlock quickly stood, striding over and grasping him firmly by the shoulders. “Breathe! You are not yourself.”

 

John’s smile grew. “Doesn’t matter,” he almost sang. “Go on, meet Moriarty and jump off the roof. There’s not much else to do, right?”

 

Sherlock froze. “How did you know about Moriarty?”

 

“Checked your phone on the fortieth Tuesday. Can’t believe it took me so long to figure out that you did something like that. The call about Mrs. Hudson was probably you too. Oh well,” he said in a rush. Then suddenly, like a switch had been flipped, John’s smile fell and he shrugged. The giddy burst of energy had now turned solemn, a mask of indifference as he watched his phone begin to ring. He wouldn’t answer it, he hadn’t the will to repeat the conversation today.

 

He didn’t want to live through anymore Tuesdays, not when every day ripped Sherlock away from him. He had lost him so many times and now, he just tired; so tired of trying, so tired of watching. But what could he do? He was doomed to repeat every day over and over, watching Sherlock die and feeling helpless as he could do nothing to stop it.

 

There had to be a way out, to end it.

 

It came to him in a flash.

 

“John!”

 

John’s head snapped up, watching Sherlock with wide eyes. “Yeah?”

 

Sherlock said nothing, his gaze revealed everything and more. Concern was a rare feature upon the detective’s face and almost always hidden, but this time it was as clear as day. His frame was shaking, he was afraid and fearful. Of what though, of John?

 

Guilt attacked him. He was such a terrible friend for making Sherlock worry. A bout of sanity returned to him and he smiled, a smaller one, reserved and controlled, like the ones he used to give. “Sorry, the whole thing with Moriarty’s been getting to me. Stress, y’know?”

 

It was obvious Sherlock didn’t believe him.

 

“I’ll be okay. Look, I’m just gonna take a walk and I’ll come back when my head is clear, yeah?” He said before reaching for his phone and taking it into his pocket.

 

Sherlock seemed reluctant but with a tight nod, he allowed him to go.

 

This time, John’s smile was of relief.

 

Leaving the room, he placed his hands into his pockets and made sure his steps were steady, as if he were walking with purpose. It made sense, lest he was discovered by a worker or alike. Though, it was hard to contain the tight ball of energy that was coiled within him. He’d figured it out, he knew how to end this Hell.

 

The elevator pinged and he made sure to hit the button for the highest floor. He wouldn’t go to Sherlock’s roof, he thought resolutely. Moriarty was probably there and John wasn’t really in the mood to talk to him. He’d tried before, tried to shoot him with his own gun too. It didn’t work.

 

Stepping out of the lift, he was pleased to see that it was empty. In the distance, he could see the sun starting to rise, bathing the city in its warm and pale light. What a nice thing to see before he died, why didn’t he appreciate it more? Oh, how foolish he was, how ignorant of all the finer things in life.

 

Well, too late for regrets now.

 

He pulled out his phone as he stepped onto the ledge. Bart’s should really consider getting fences for these places, he mused while he flicked through his phonebook. He dialled Sherlock’s number.

 

“John? Why are you calling me? You said you’d be back.”

 

John closed his eyes, relishing the sound of his friend’s voice one last time. At least Sherlock was alive long enough for him to say this. “I’m tired, Sherlock.”

 

“John? John! Where are you? Answer me!”

 

He felt no fear as he opened his eyes to peer over the ledge. Would he have a death as beautiful as Sherlock’s? Would his blood pool around him, forming a halo of crimson like it had with Sherlock? Or would it be gruesome, a terrible, mangled death like he’d seen in Afghanistan?

 

Sherlock was beautiful, even in death. John doubted that he’d look quite so ethereal.

 

“John!”

 

“Goodbye, Sherlock.”

 

The sensation of falling was quite like flying, John thought. His eyes slipped closed, his destination was nearing. Sweet release was waiting for him.

 

Going.

 

Going.

 

Gone.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> For Inspectahradio on tumblr. The full prompt was:
> 
> Moriarty knows John is Sherlock’s ‘heart’. To burn the ‘heart’ out of Sherlock, Moriarty (aka The Trickster) puts John into a continuous loophole where he has to relive the moment Sherlock jumping off at St. Bart’s, and his every attempt to save the detective from falling, he dies a different death. It’s always Tuesday and Sherlock keeps dying in front of John. Sherlock and John has to figure out how to escape this loophole before John begins to deteriorate and loses his sanity.
> 
> It would be good too if it was vice versa for that prompt. If John was the one who died constantly, that would leave Sherlock try to solve Moriarty’s puzzle before death takes John’s life again in the Tuesday loophole. He’ll end up going insane because he can’t delete anything. Every clues will be crucial in saving John’s life. But with that idea that he can’t delete anything at all, that means every single death that happen to John will be stored in Sherlock’s mind. With his curse to observe everything he sees, he’ll see and remember every facial expression John makes to Sherlock before he dies. Then each Tuesday, John will notice how Sherlock becomes more agitated and more irritable, as Moriarty’s game is starting to take its toll on him.


End file.
